


and your cheeks brush

by spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Category: Radio 1 RPF, Union J (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2035059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick's at a festival. It starts raining. He ducks into a tent that happens to be occupied by New Harry and the one in Union J who's not George and isn't gay and doesn't have a baby. The other one. Things progress as they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and your cheeks brush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [colazitron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/colazitron/gifts).



Nick is very dirty. Of course, some of his friends might say that’s his natural state, but he’s really _unnaturally_ dirty, mud and muck everywhere, a few unidentifiable substances clinging to his jeans. That’s the nature of festivals, he supposes, looking down at himself and wrinkling his nose. They’re dirty and vile and loud, and he loves them.

Wellies, he does not love. They are never fashionable, at least not on his legs, no matter what Alexa may say.

A brolly, however, would have come in handy today. Another unfashionable thing on Nick is bedraggled hair. How is anyone supposed to know who he is without his quiff? Plus, it hides the fact that as he's getting up in years, he's starting to look like his dad. At least around the temples.

Festivals. The worst, really. He can't wait until the next one.

He flinches at the first raindrop. Fat and cold, it splatters right on the end of his nose, and he sputters, actually stumbling backwards. A glance up at the sky tells him all he needs to know. It's dark and menacing, and the clouds must be only seconds from opening up

already sliding across the ground, and he'd rather not fall on his arse straight into real mud.

Is he famous enough to slip into someone's tent and pass it off as reasonable? That's the nature of festivals, really, isn't it? Fellowship and that? He can be charming, when he wants to be, and he can talk himself out of nearly anything, and his hair really doesn't need to get any worse than it already is.

Plus, he has a flask of vodka in his breast pocket, and everyone loves vodka. Especially at festivals. That's just a fact.

He scans the nearest tents and then, when two more raindrops plop down on the back of his neck, scurries to fling open the flap of one, ducking inside and really just hoping it's not a naked grandmother.

Although that would be a great story for radio. Ian and Finchy would get a kick out of it. Hopefully she'll be called something like Hilda or Bereniece.

He blinks to clear his vision, because it's quite dark inside the tent, and it had been bright outside despite the oncoming storm. He can't keep the grin off his face, once he sees, because it's not a naked grandmother.

Well, it's not a grandmother.

This probably isn't a good story for radio, either. Although Finchy and Ian will still get a kick from it.

"Harry?" Nick asks, blinking.

"You need new jokes," grumbles George Shelley, frowning at him with the disgruntled kitten face that had made Nick push a little too far last time they'd met in person, because making George Shelley angry is like making a baby animal angry; you can recognize that they're upset but it's too cute to stop upsetting them.

He read once that people feel aggressive when faced with photos of adorable baby animals because they want to reach out and pet them so badly that not being able to pet them makes people actually angry.

That's sort of Nick, vis-a-vis George Shelley.

And the other one from Union J is there, not-George and not-gay and not has-a-baby, the other one. His name starts with a J, Nick knows that. Josh, right? It must be Josh, with his half-frown and his rumpled quiff. Nick wants to give him a commiserating look, but doesn't think it'd be well received.

"I wasn't..." Nick trails off. He wasn't joking, really. For a second, just that first second, naked George had looked like a naked Harry whom Nick once knew, an hundred tattoos and four inches of hair ago.

George wrinkles his nose some more, reaching over to the edge of their blanket and pulling it across his lap. "Did you need something?" he asks pointedly. He's still very cute, even naked and prim, his hair a mess of crumpled curls. His frown is more confused now than anything. "How did you even know this was our tent?"

"I didn't," Nick protests. "It's raining." That sounds terrible. It doesn't even sound true, even though it is true.

Josh, Union Josh, looks doubtful. "And you just happened to duck into our tent?" he asks. He has very nice teeth. Nick wonders why he doesn't smile more. He's always very solemn, is Union Josh, hardly smiles and looks self-conscious when he laughs too loud.

Nick shrugs. A gale of droplets batters the tent's wall, which helps lend some credence to his story, at least. "Stranger things have happened." 

He sits down.

Josh squawks.

George doesn't, which is interesting. Then again, Nick has long suspected that there's more to George Shelley than the giggly, blushing bunny rabbit that he puts out there. There's something in his eyes that reminds Nick of himself, that reminds him of... other people he's known. He doesn't like to compare, but sometimes, in the right light, it's really striking, how very much George reminds him of Harry.

Except a normal number of nipples. George only has two. Nick can see that rather plainly.

"Are you staying, then?" George sighs, adjusting the blanket covering his modesty. Union Josh doesn't seem as concerned with covering up. This is all very interesting to Nick. They're very interesting. In a multitude of ways, really, and he wants to page through all of them like flipping through a book.

He raises his eyebrows as the corners of his mouth pull thoughtfully. "If I'm not interrupting."

"Oh, not at all." That was rather dry, coming from George, as he rummages around next to him, finally retrieving pants and trying to put them on without dislodging the blanket on his lap.

Nick wants to say, _you don't have to do that_ , and doesn't realize that he, in fact, has said so until George pauses and looks across the tent to him.

The rain is very loud.

They exchange a little _look_ , the two boybanders in front of him, and then George shrugs, and Josh shugs back at him, and George tosses his pants back from whence they came.

"Will this end up on your show?" Josh asks. "Showbot or someone making fun of my cock?"

"They've never made fun of Hazza's, have they? And I'd wager I know a bit more about his. So." A venture, tentative, an exchange of information. Not much - anybody who's spent more than thirty minutes with Harry knows more about his cock than they might want to - but it's only fair, he thinks.

Josh hums appreciatively, his very impressive eyebrows knitting together. "Alright, then. Go on."

"You have magnificent eyebrows," Nick says, instead of going on. Really, it's ridiculous, and Josh should be aware.

"Thank you!"

George, beside Josh, just rolls his eyes.

"Do they just grow that way?" Nick asks, curious, scooting closer across the floor of the tent. His trousers are already ruined, anyway, and the blanket looks comfortable, and he, well, he can be honest, he would like to be closer to the mostly naked good-looking boys in the room.

"No," George says as Josh says yes. "He cries whenever they thread them."

Nick winces, and this time he gives Josh that commiserating look, solidarity between people who have had their eyebrows cruelly victimized. "I'm so sorry," he says solemnly.

Josh nudges George in the side. "See? At least someone's sympathetic."

George gives him this longsuffering look that's awfully sweet, like they've known each other for years and had this argument for all of them. "I'm sorry," he says, flat. "You're right, it must be excruciating."

He kisses Josh's eyebrow. The blanket slips down his thighs, too, but that isn't where Nick looks.

It's actually kind of beautiful, the pair of them together. Like a painting. The lighting still isn't good but that adds to it, and they're all shadow and skin, presses of skin that would be chaste if he didn't know they weren't.

Nick clears his throat. "Did you still want me to go on, then?"

George gives him this sideways look that sends a thrill down Nick's spine. "We're not the boss of you," he says, with Josh's chin hooked over his bare shoulder. He really is terribly pretty. "You can go on, or you can just go, or you can stay. What do you want to do?"

That's an easy one. "I'd like to stay, if you'll have me. Or let me have you."

George giggles, and Nick thinks that maybe it's not _all_ an act. He'd like if it wasn't, if George was a giggly ticklish kitten who still had that sharp knowledge of the world he's in, a savvy it takes other people in his position years and years to develop. The best of both worlds.

There aren't many popstars who ever cultivate it. Nick tends to like best the few who do.

"I could probably be convinced to be had," says George, with another one of those glances to Josh. Nick wonders if this situation has come up with them before, and amuses himself for a moment trying to guess who the third person might have been. But that's not why he's here. Having George Shelley isn't why he's here, either, but he's content to blame it on the rain, and reminds himself to thank it later.


End file.
